


Better than Reality TV

by LylaRivers



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Jewish Good Omens, M/M, The author is jewish, The native language of the angels is hebrew you cant change my mind, crowley is the king of inconveniencing himself with his ill deeds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 19:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20318113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: Crowley asks. He bears down a little harder on the demonic suggestion. The idea of isolating a child, only speaking a near-extinct language, gives him little chills of evil joy.Not to mention, if it works, Jews all over the world who move here will be forced to learn the language. There’s something delightful about the frustrations associated with reviving a dead language.





	Better than Reality TV

**Author's Note:**

> Tfw when you and your partner both get into a fandom, and come up with awful fic ideas together, but you’re the writer, so you have to write it. 
> 
> Shoutout to the Ace Omens discord server, for enabling my descent into fandom madness. 
> 
> Note: “” indicates the speaker is speaking English, <> indicates the speaker is speaking Hebrew.

**** 1881, Palestine 

The cafe was full of the sweet smell of ambition- handfuls of Jews clustered around tables, heads pressed together, preparing for their quiet revolution against the British. The air was ripe for a spot of temptation. Discreetly, Crowley flicks his tongue out, trying to find the most receptive target to his wiles. 

There. A man sitting alone, papers spread across a table. He smells… tastes… of ambition and determination. The perfect recipe. 

Crowley edges over to the table to look at the papers. His eyes widen in suprise- he hasn’t seen this much Hebrew outside of a synagogue since… well… maybe the destruction of the Second Temple. The man is muttering to himself, making notes in the margins of several papers- also in Hebrew. 

Crowley raises his eyebrows at the teacup in his hand, and it duplicates. Then, he sits down across from the man, and pushes one teacup towards him. 

<Looks like you've got quite a project, there,> Crowley offers, using the Medieval Hebrew dialect common to communicating with another diasporic Jew. The man looks up in surprise. Crowley offers his hand to shake. <Anah ben Ehchen.>

<Eliezar Ben Yehuda,> the man offers, and shakes his hand. Crowley tries not to snicker. The particular word for ‘serpent’ that he’s using hasn’t been in use for a while, and it’s not the same name he was given in the Torah. It’s clear that Eliezar isn’t  _ that _ familiar with Hebrew. Otherwise he’d know that the name Crowley has given is ‘answer, son of snake’. 

<So, your project?> Crowley asks, gesturing to the papers. 

<I’m modernizing Hebrew,> Ben Yehuda explains. <This Medieval dialect isn’t sufficient for modern use.>

<Ambitious,> Crowley remarks. <How’s it coming?> 

<As well as it can,> Ben Yehuda sighs. <The words and constructs are all there, I just don’t know how viable it is as a full time language.> 

A very evil thought comes to Crowley. He hasn’t fully thought through every implication, but the ones he can come up with right now are truly lovely. <Do you have kids?> he asks. Ben Yehuda nods. <They pick up language fast. Teach them. If they can’t learn it, no one can.> He adds just a touch of demonic suggestion to this. 

<My wife is pregnant,> Ben Yehuda says proudly. 

<Mazel tov. Why not raise the kid to speak Hebrew?> Crowley asks. He bears down a little harder on the demonic suggestion. The idea of isolating a child, only speaking a near-extinct language, gives him little chills of evil joy. 

Not to mention,  _ if _ it works, Jews all over the world who move here will be forced to learn the language. There’s something delightful about the frustrations associated with reviving a dead language. 

<Hmm,> Ben Yehuda says. <You may have a point, there.>

Crowley settles in to help bring back a dead language. 

***

Present Day

Crowley wakes up in a cold sweat from a horrific nightmare, filled with flames and cold, emotionless Archangels. His first thought is that the Archangels have set Aziraphale’s beloved bookshelf on fire again. <Zira,> Crowley mutters. <Zira!> 

No use. He doesn’t get the usual tacit acknowledgment from the angel when he uses Hebrew. There’s no sense that his message has been received. He’s not answering his phone. He’s not responding to the subtle Hebrew message. 

Given the recent Armeged-don’t, Crowley can’t help but panic. 

It’s the work of seconds to miracle himself into more appropriate clothes to roam the streets in. Before he can logic his way out, he hops into the Bentley II, and speeds to the bookshop. It’s not as if Aziraphale can’t take care of himself, of course- warrior of Heaven and all that. And there  _ shouldn’t _ be trouble, not after their switcharoo stunt. They should be left alone for a good long while. 

But. 

There’s always a chance someone decided to get uppity, or go rogue. He could very easily see Gabriel sneaking down and trying to off Aziraphale  _ again _ . Crowley’s blood boils every time he thinks about Gabriel telling “Aziraphale” to ‘shut up and die already. If he hadn’t had to maintain cover, Crowley would have ripped that smug fucker apart from mouth to asshole. 

There’s always a chance it’s his side. Someone knows that Hastur would love to get revenge for Ligur. Beezebulb would love to get revenge for being made a fool of. There’s any number of other demons he’s slighted or snubbed in the past six millennium who’d love his head mounted on a pike- or better yet, Aziraphake’s head. 

Neither of them will be winning any popularity contests, now that the Earth still spins. 

The bookshop is thankfully  _ not  _ on fire when he arrives. Crowley breathes a brief sigh of relief, then storms into the bookshop. 

Aziraphale is sitting in the back in a truly hideous tartan armchair, blue eyes unfocused. He’s wearing an old light blue 18th century dressing gown, and he gives no indication that he’s heard Crowley’s rather dramatic entrance. Crowley goes up to him, and waves his hand. No reaction. He tries snapping his fingers a few times. Nothing. 

“Zira!” Crowley says loudly. Nothing. 

Is he in some kind of  _ trance _ ? Is this an angel thing? Crowley’s never seen anything like it before. 

Crowley grits his teeth, and shakes Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Hey, angel!” he nearly shouts. 

Aziraphale startles, blinks, and glances over at Crowley in surprise. “Oh, dear. Crowley! When did you get here? I’m sorry, I was just so absorbed in my conversation.”

“Your  _ what  _ now?” Crowley asks. “There’s no one else here!”

“Oh, dear, no. Not that kind of conversation. No I was rather… shamelessly eavesdropping.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Oh, it’s the silliest thing. Any words spoken in Hebrew are translated to Heaven as prayer, you know. Ever since Ben Yehuda revived the language, back in the early 1900s, even mundane, day to day conversation has been broadcast through Heaven. We’ve had to set up filters for actual prayers, of course. But it’s quite entertaining to listen in to some conversations, when you’re a bit bored.”

“So you didn’t answer me… because you were eavesdropping on some poor humans who happen to speak Hebrew,” Crowley recaps flatly. He sinks down into the chair opposite Aziraphale. 

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds so  _ sinister _ ,” Aziraphale tuts. 

“How should it sound then, angel?”

“It’s a lot like… what was that invention of yours, dear? Real Television?”

“Reality TV,” Crowley grits out. 

“Yes, that’s the one. Anyways, it’s a bit like that, except it’s not quite so, ah… catty.”

“Really, now?”

“Oh, yes. This couple has been talking about a duel between 100 spider sized horses, versus one horse sized spider, and arguing over who would win.”

“That’s ridiculous, of course the spider sized horses would win,” Crowley says immediately. “They have numbers, and the sheer viciousness of being horses on their side.”

“Well, the young lady certainly agrees with you. Her young man seems convinced that the horse sized spider would be able to stomp enough horses at once with its 8 legs to give it an advantage.”

Crowley considers this, dismisses it as a ridiculous answer, and then realizes that he’s getting side-tracked. “Anyways. You just listen in on people talking?”

“Oh, people talking, singing, rehearsing plays… anything spoken.”

“Even people being… ah…”

“Being intimate? Yes,” Aziraphale says, rather quickly. 

“You listen… to people… having sex?”

“My goodness, no!” Aziraphale says, perhaps a bit too quickly. Crowley glares at him, but Aziraphale remains unmoved. 

“Why have I never known this?” Crowley asks, unwilling to pursue that line of thought right then. 

“Well, I imagine it’s never interfered with you trying to talk to me before,” Aziraphale considers. “I tend to be rather busy during the day, of course. I do have a bookstore to run, so I can’t just be listening to other people all the time.” Crowley scoffs at Aziraphale’s idea of ‘running a bookstore’. “It’s really only at night that I bother tuning in. Since you are usually asleep at night, and it’s ever so entertaining late at night...”

“You’re telling me that you don’t sleep because you’re too busy eavesdropping?” Crowley demands.

“I wouldn’t say it’s the only reason, no,” Aziraphale says. “But it certainly gives me something to do when I’m not in the mood to read something.” 

“Which is when, exactly, angel?”

“It does happen,” Aziraphale says peevishly.

“Sure it does, angel,” Crowley says soothingly. 

“Anyways, what did you want, Crowley? Aren’t you usually sleeping at this time of night?”

Now that he’s actually here, Crowley doesn’t want to talk about it. “It’s nothing,” he says, hoping to brush it off. 

Aziraphale folds his arms, and gives Crowley a Look. “Really, now, dear. You cannot expect me to believe that you would drive here at 3 in the morning for ‘nothing’, now, can you?”

“I was just bored, and I couldn’t reach you in Hebrew like I usually do to bother you,” Crowley lies. 

Aziraphale leaves his armchair, crosses the distance between them, and perches on the arm of Crowley’s chair. He takes one of Crowley’s hands in both of his own. “Crowley, my dear, you don’t need to lie to me.”

His hand is so warm. “Ngk,” Crowley manages. 

“ _ Please _ talk to me, dearest,” Aziraphale says, voice soft and warm. 

Before he can process what's happening, Crowley feels tears well up in his eyes. Thank G-... Sa-...  _ Someone _ that he wears his sunglasses all the time. “It’s nothing, really,” he tries to insist. 

“Really now,” Aziraphale tuts. He reaches over and pulls Crowley’s glasses off in a smooth motion, before he can protest. Crowley mentally blesses at his traitorous, weepy eyes. “Tell me, dear,” Aziraphale says. 

Damn his sensitive angel and those puppy-dog eyes to the depths of… well, not Hell. Definitely Somewhere, though. “I don’t usually dream, when I sleep,” he starts off, uncertain. “Or at least, I don’t remember my dreams, if I have them. But since the Apocalypse that wasn’t… I have these dreams. Nightmares, really. I’m at the bookshop, and all the Archangels are there, watching, as the shop burns. And I know that not only is it Hellfire, but that you’ve been trapped inside.” His voice cracks and breaks here, and Crowley closes his eyes. “And I know… that you're gone. No more miraculous escapes. And I couldn’t bear for that to be true.” Tears leak out of his eyes, running hot against his cheek. 

A soft hand brushes against his cheek, gently wiping tears away. “Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley clutches the hand still in his. “Don’t leave me angel.  _ Please _ . Never again.”  _ Love me _ , he wants to add. 

Maybe his angel will hear it, anyways. He’s always been so good at reading between the lines. 

“Never,” Aziraphale agrees. There’s a sudden loss, as his hand is no longer held by the angel’s, but just as soon as he feels its loss, the second hand has joined its partner in cupping his chin. “My dear. Look at me, please?”

Hesitantly, Crowley opens his eyes. Aziraphale is looking at him, expression unbearably gentle.

“Crowley, I’d very much like to kiss you.”

“Ngk,” Crowley manages. Before Aziraphale can say anything else, Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale, and pulls him into his lap. Aziraphale squishes into the armchair with him. He cradles Crowley’s head reverently, before closing the gap between their faces, and bringing their lips together. 

If Heaven existed in the way that humans tend to imagine, then the kiss would be nothing short of  _ Heavenly _ . That being said, Heaven is full of pompous assholes. Instead, Crowley charactetized this 6000 year overdue kiss as blissful. It starts of chaste enough, but it isn’t long before both of them are gripping the other to close what little gap there is. 

Neither of them  _ need  _ to breathe, but they break apart gasping for air. Crowley wraps one arm around Aziraphale’s soft middle, and leans until their foreheads are pressed together. Aziraphale smiles at him, practically radiating love. It’s too soft and full of admiration for a demon, but Crowley finds he can’t get enough of it. 

“What do you say to staying here, tonight?” Aziraphale asks. “Then you can  _ know _ for sure that I’m safe.”

“You don’t have a bed,” Crowley accuses. “You don’t sleep!”

“I do too have a bed,” Aziraphale replies, but Crowley feels the burst of Heavenly magic that makes it so. 

“You mean you have a bed  _ now _ ,” Crowley corrects. 

“Will it get you to stay the night?” 

“Ngk.”

Aziraphale traces his face with both thumbs, gently caressing his cheekbones. “Oh, my dear,” he murmurs, and then, he presses their lips together again. This kiss stays gentle, with Aziraphale pulling back after just a few seconds. “Stay here tonight. Forever. However long you want.”

“Always,” Crowley whispers, not trusting his voice to anything more. 

“You know, if you had told me that you like to get my attention with Hebrew, I could have just set an awareness filter for you,” Aziraphale says. There’s a hint lf mischief in his eye. 

“You utter bastard,” Crowley says. 

“Mmmh. But I’m your bastard, and you love it.”

“I love  _ you _ , angel,” Crowley mutters into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“I know that you do, dear,” Aziraphale replies. “Now, up you get, you sleepy serpent. It’s late, and you must be exhausted.” He wriggles out of the chair, and holds out a hand for Crowley. Crowley takes it, and lets the angel lead him up the stairs lf the flat. 

The bed isn’t what Crowley expects. There’s a four poster bed with a simple black coverlet in the middle of what should be the living room, positioned awkwardly across from a couch. The walls, of course, are full of bookshelves. Aziraphale sees Crowley’s questioning look, and flushes. “The bedroom is too full of books to hold a bed,” he explains. 

“Oh angel.”

“What? As you said, I don’t sleep!” 

There will be time later to talk about that. Crowley throws back the covers- to reveal a truly hideous tartan sheet set. “Angel!” 

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale radiates innocence. 

Crowley sighs. If he’s being honest, he would’t have his angel any other way. He snaps his fingers, and is wearing a silky black pajama set. “Come to  _ bed _ , angel.”

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale settles down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Crowley climbs in next to him, and curls around his angel like the snake he is at heart. Aziraphale’s stomach is better than any pillow could ever be, and he radiates warmth and comfort. 

“For the record, dear, I love you too,” Aziraphale says. 

“ _ Ani ohev ohtach, _ ” Crowley mumbles, already half asleep. He falls asleep to the sensation if Aziraphale stroking his hair. 

*** 

**Author's Note:**

> At the end, Crowley says “I love you” in Hebrew.


End file.
